The Litany

A caterpillar hangs upon a leaf, Sighing for the tears, the grief; For in just a few days he leaves this stage, He leaves this book, he leaves this page. And throughout all his highs and lows, The litany continues, it grows and grows.

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A butterfly waits upon a cloud, High in the stratosphere, erect and proud; He has made it past the words of hate, The vicious slander of the second-rate. And through all the yes’es and the no’s, The litany continues, it grows and grows.

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The same butterfly lays face down, Not lively but weary, not blue but brown; With his memories stowed away in drawers, He covered his scars from all the wars. And through all of the hands he had to lend, The litany must stop, must end and end.

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